When I’m working on a book, I constantly retype my own sentences. Every day I go back to page one and just retype what I have. It gets me into a rhythm. . . . At the end of the day, I mark up the pages I’ve done–pages or page–all the way back to page one. I mark them up so that I can retype them in the morning. It gets me past that blank terror.
I’m not sure I understand the process of writing. There is, I’m sure, something strange about imaginative concentration. The brain slowly begins to function in a different way, to make mysterious connections. Say, it is Monday, and you write a very bad draft, but if you keep trying, on Friday, words, phrases, appear almost unexpectedly. I don’t know why you can’t do it on Monday, or why I can’t. I’m the same person, no smarter, I have nothing more at hand.
The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.
I think I may boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress.
I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.
Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.